A slice of my draft

I decided to follow the advice of our fellow peers and post the opening to my latest draft. Let me know what you think:

A Writing Memory

My earliest memories are of stories. Many of these cherished tales were read to me by my parents- they would snuggle with my brother and I upstairs in their big bed, reading Doctor Seuss or Grimm’s Fairy Tales aloud to us in those precious minutes before bedtime. Other memories of stories, however, would come from a different source. They would be of my mind and my imagination- of the adventures and characters I created.

Of course, I was five or six at the time, a wild creature, barely into my schooling, and so it was not an entirely lonesome endeavor to create these tales. I did all the hard work; most of the real action would take place inside my head throughout the day. There would be battles with imaginary monsters, a discovery of hidden treasure, an induction into the ranks of my favorite superheroes, or simply an exploration to a mysterious land. These were the busy imaginings of an active little boy, hardly unusual, and not really concrete. But every night, writing would take place because the setting down of all these stories, the wonderful happenings of my head, would come through the help of my parents.

After dinner each night, I would drag them to the basement and push them toward the computer. That little subterranean space was such a mess; there was the bar that my dad turned into a work station for his various hobbies, smelling of paint, metal, and freshly cut wood. A narrow space next to it was filled with all the kids’ junk- old Halloween costumes, toys, and blankets. Ringing the space were shelves upon shelves, each filled with CD’s and books- all stacked so haphazardly that it was unusual if one of the piles didn’t crash to the ground thunderously each night. Buried amidst it all, in the darkest, most cluttered corner of the room was this big computer, huge even back then, an old Window’s ’95: gigantic and boxy, tucked away into a snug little place. This piece of ancient technology was more than just a machine, it was the symbol of power; it had the ability to make the imaginary come to life, to turn something silly and simple into a living thing, to turn the pretend into the real. I would sit on my parents’ laps or at a tall stool and dictate my stories to them as though I were Pharaoh laying down edicts with imperial authority.